Come, love. We don’t bring them into focus,
or cast shadows upon the dim water,
or rouse them out to talk. No, no. For us
it’s about patience; when the gray weather
becomes neither sea nor sky, when the birds
hide in the drab grass sands, when the wind shifts
so that glacial waves are lulled by the words
that we both must speak. I’ve charted the rifts
between our two worlds. I’ve drunk from their cup.
I’ve made us a pact; because I love them.
It’s OK to be frightened, downcast and glum.
I was. We all will be. Yes, it’s fucked up.
Yes, I’d rather not, but … even mayhem
can’t save us. The rifts open. Come, love, come.